


The Prince in His Tower {Rewriting}

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Liberties Taken with Lore, M/M, Prince Prompto, unspecified chronic illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 23:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Years after an armistice was declared between the warring nations of Lucis and Niflheim, the two ancient enemies are at the eve of signing a treaty that will finally unite their people in peace. One of the many conditions of the treaty is the marriage of Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum and Lunafreya Nox Fleuret; such a union is a welcome announcement to the people of two nations who were once close allies.Prince Prompto Argentum Fleuret is fifth in line to the throne of Niflheim. Frail and sickly, he is unlikely to ascend in his lifetime. He watches from a distance as his dear cousin Lunafreya meets her husband-to-be and knows that her marriage will take her away from him, perhaps forever.When Gladiolus Amicitia, shield of the future king, sees a gaunt figure hiding away in the window of a tower at the palace of Niflheim, he's immediately drawn this elusive young man. He becomes determined to learn more about the prince whom Niflheim would sooner forget, and forges an unlikely bond along the way.





	1. 2

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha please ignore that I said I wouldn't have any more AUs. Please pretend that I don't love torturing myself.
> 
> *sigh*
> 
> Anyway, it's another Prince Prompto AU, this time focusing on Promptio; I felt like my favourite ship deserved a shot at this trope with a little ~forbidden romance~ to spice things up.

‘Nervous?’

‘A little.’

Gladiolus wagers that  _ a little _ is an understatement on Noctis’s part, but he keeps the words to himself. Truth is, he’s nervous, too. Nervous, because his father drilled into him just how dangerous this little diplomatic visit might be if the Niffs’ intentions turn out to be impure; nervous, because he’ll be one of the first Lucians to set foot in Niflheim — officially speaking, of course — in years.

There’s a lot riding on this visit, for both sides.

Ignis is reticent where he sits across from Gladiolus and the prince. He stares out the window at the rolling scenery, as though his attention is elsewhere; Gladiolus knows better. He can see the cogs working in his friend’s head even where the royal advisor projects a facade of calm.

If this works out, they’ll be returning home in a few weeks’ time with Noct’s new bride, the peace treaty finally sealed between the two great nations of Lucis and Niflheim.

_ If _ the Niffs are good for their word.

‘Tenebrae, Your Highness,’ Ignis says, the first thing he’s said in hours.

When Gladiolus follows his friend’s line of sight out the window, he sees the splendour of Tenebrae stretching out ahead of them. Even in the dawn light it’s green and lush, like nothing Gladiolus has ever seen: sheer, brilliant mountain peaks; islands suspended in the air, as if by magic, held up by geothermal vents; waterfalls and placid lakes.

They’ll come back to Tenebrae after the deal has been sealed with the ceremony — Noct will bring his new wife to her homeland for a final time, where the festivities will go on for many days and nights. For now, even as the train slows to let off a party of Lucian delegates, the prince and his retinue will continue along the tracks toward Niflheim, where the snowy capital of Gralea awaits.

‘Won’t be too much longer,’ Gladiolus says, shifting into his seat to get comfortable. ‘Why not take a rest for a while, Noct?’

‘Too wired to sleep,’ Noctis replies, but even as he speaks, Gladiolus knows it’s a lie. He can see the prince’s eyelids drooping in spite of every attempt to stay alert.

‘We’ll wake you when it’s time,’ Gladiolus says, nudging the prince’s shoulder. ‘You’re not missing anything.’

* * *

Even with a car full of Crownsguard and Kingsglaive, Gladiolus is still on alert — yet somehow, as the train rolls steadily on and Noct’s soft snores fill the air, he feels himself drifting off. One moment it’s lush greenery outside; the next it’s dazzling white, as the snow-blanketed Imperial capital comes ever closer.

Ignis hasn’t moved from his silent vigil, looking unruffled even after hours of travel.

There’s a soft  _ thump _ farther down the car — the refreshments cart is here, making its rounds. Must’ve been what woke Gladiolus up.

‘You want anything, Ig?’ Gladiolus asks, reaching for his wallet.

Ignis shakes his head. Doesn’t bother breaking his line of sight on the landscape.

When the attendant rolls up with the cart, she’s all smiles. She keeps her voice soft so as not to disturb the sleeping prince. Gladiolus orders some bottled drinks, gourmet sandwiches and a handful of pastries for Noct. When he moves to pay, the woman shakes her head.

‘Courtesy of the emperor,’ she says. ‘If you’d like anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

When she’s gone, Gladiolus cracks the lid of one of the bottles of water — before he can so much as touch it to his lips there’s a glaive at his shoulder, shaking her head firmly.

‘Allow me, sir,’ she says.

Testing for poison, he realises, as she takes the bottle from his grasp. She doesn’t taste it, though; instead she holds it between her hands and closes her eyes, her expression contorting with concentration. When she seems satisfied, she moves on to the other items and does the same, holding her hands over everything for a long, tense while.

‘All good, sir,’ she states, nudging the bottle across the table in his direction.

‘Nifty skill,’ Gladiolus remarks, impressed. ‘You ever get it wrong?’

She shakes her head, and a wry grin twists her lips.

‘Don’t you think you’d’ve heard about it if I did?’

He snorts softly.

‘Fair point,’ he says. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

She’s all formality now, straightening up and clasping her hands behind her back, thrusting her chin out.

‘Crowe Altius, sir,’ she says. ‘Kingsglaive designation: mage.’

That explains her little trick with the food, at least — Gladiolus wonders if there are others in the Glaive with her ability, or if she has the singular responsibility of making sure the Niffs don’t try anything untoward. Gotta be a bit less daunting of a task than the food taster at the Citadel, at least; in all his life he’s never known anybody to die from poison, but he’s heard stories from his father’s youth.

‘You eat or drink anything,’ Crowe says, ‘you run it by me first. You can never be too safe.’

He flashes her a smile by way of thanks and watches her return to her post in the next row over. Funny; he’d barely paid attention to the glaives stationed with them before, but now he can see they’re all watchful, alert for threats from without  _ or _ within.

The water definitely doesn’t  _ taste _ poisoned, at least, and while Gladiolus doesn’t know many of the Glaive by name, he trusts them with his life. Those who weren’t vetted by his father or the Marshal were handpicked by the general of the Glaive, Drautos — he’s never steered the army wrong in all his years at its head.

‘You’re quiet,’ he remarks through a mouthful of his sandwich, watching Ignis over his food.

Ignis detaches his glance from the window and turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’m  _ working,’ _ Ignis chides. ‘As you should be. Our job shan’t be done till we’re safely back in the capital.’

Gladiolus sighs and wipes a drop of dressing from the side of his mouth. He loves the guy, but is Ignis ever  _ not _ uptight? It feels like he’s only gotten worse since the marriage was announced as part of the treaty terms.

‘Our job’s never done, Iggy,’ he says. ‘You know I know that. But come on — we’ve got the Glaive here too, and the Empire ain’t dumb enough to try anything so obvious, not when so much is at stake.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t share your faith, Gladiolus,’ Ignis says briskly. ‘It’s not a matter of intellect, but of desperation.’

Gladiolus narrows his eyes at his friend’s words. He’s never pegged the Imperials for the desperate type, but then he grew up hearing about all of his old man’s first-hand experiences with the bastards. A nation that uses  _ babies _ to fuel their Magitek infantry is probably more  _ ruthless _ than desperate.

Involuntarily, he shudders. He’s glad that the king was so firm about including the closure of the Magitek programme in the terms of the treaty.

‘You think they’re desperate?’ he presses, leaning forward the better to speak with his companion. ‘I thought this treaty was about giving the Empire what they wanted, too.’

Ignis shrugs and steeples his hands together, turning his glance once more toward the window.

‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But while the emperor’s policies may have changed, I’m not convinced his motives have.’

Thoughtfully, Gladiolus sits back in his seat and mulls Ignis’s words over. The advisor may not be so far off the mark — the Empire only agreed to an armistice after a series of decisive victories on the part of the Lucians a few years back, and while the treaty signing is set to finally seal the deal, the Niffs still stand to lose a lot.

Personally, Gladiolus thinks that if the Niffs are going to make a move, it’ll be during the signing — when everybody’s guard is down.

All he can do is hold onto the words Cor once told him, when he was still an initiate of the Crownsguard:

_ Prepare for the worst, and hope like hell that it doesn’t come to pass. _

Noct’s cranky when he wakes, jolted out of his slumber by a sharp turn on the tracks. He looks around blearily for the source of the disturbance, but before he can turn his irritation on his retinue, Gladiolus hands him a pastry — something covered in icing and filled with a sweet paste.

‘We should be there in no more than an hour,’ Ignis remarks. Now that the prince is awake, he finally breaks his vigil and accepts bottled water, sipping delicately from the brim.

‘You think it’s cold out there?’ Noct asks.

Here in the confines of the train car, they’re insulated from the weather — they were blissfully cool through the desert climes of Cartanica, and now the train is warm in spite of the heavy snow outside.

Gladiolus scoffs.

‘Gotta be about three feet out there,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go make some snow angels, tell us what you think.’

Noct gives him a dark look; after a pause, he turns his glance toward the window once more, staring as though rapt. It’s the first time they’ve seen so much snow up close — it’s hard not to be moved by it.

♜ ♜ ♜

It’s a beautiful, crisp day — the snow on the palace grounds is all powdery and soft, glittering gently in the sunlight.

Prompto looks on from afar, safe within the confines of his chambers.

If it were a good day, he might ask to be wheeled out into the sprawling gardens with their fountains of frozen crystal and lustrous evergreens capped with snow. He might even brave a brief jaunt on foot — with an attendant holding his arm all the while, of course — just to stretch his legs as he took in the cool air.

This is not a good day, though; he woke with chills and aches, his forehead burning, and his nurse relegated him indoors for the foreseeable future.

He’d wanted to be among the welcoming party. Had  _ wanted _ to see the foreigners for himself. Had wanted to be there by his dear cousin’s side when she greeted Prince Noctis for the last time as his betrothed, before they would be wed.

‘It’s taking its toll, my lady,’ the nurse chides, clucking her tongue as she turns Prompto’s face this way and that to inspect his pallour. ‘All the excitement of the treaty and the nuptials — it’ll surely do him no good. If you care for him at all, you’ll excuse him from the ceremony and let him rest.’

Prompto feels a surge of panic rush through him at the words. He can’t miss the wedding — he simply can’t. 

Lunafreya, however, is quick to come to his rescue as always — he hears the click of her shoes as she crosses the room to be beside him, taking his hand with her own and chasing the cold from his fingers.

‘I’ll remind you not speak of him as though he isn’t there,’ Luna says sharply. ‘He’s a prince of Niflheim, after all. Besides, it’s already been arranged.’

Prompto resists the urge to snort at the formality of being called a  _ prince of Niflheim; _ he might be fifth in the line of succession, after his distant cousins the Tummelts, but he can’t imagine the emperor allowing someone as sickly as  _ him _ to sit the throne someday, even if every other heir happened to mysteriously perish.

The nurse tuts with displeasure, but mercifully she relents in her fussing and moves away, instead setting about to ready Prompto’s things. He might not have permission to accompany the welcoming party, but he’ll be in attendance at the feast tonight, at least.

Luna stays by Prompto’s side until the nurse is gone; once the door closes behind her, it feels finally as though Prompto can breathe.

‘I’m sorry you can’t be out there today,’ Luna says, turning to kiss Prompto’s head. She has to stoop a little to reach the top of his blond head. ‘I’d sneak you out myself, if I could.’

Prompto twists and grins up at his cousin. She’s not speaking platitudes; he knows she means it sincerely. Considering that they all but grew up together — he spent many of the long winters of his childhood in Tenebrae to recuperate from the cold, and came to see Luna and her brother, Ravus, as the closest thing he had to siblings — he knows that it pains her to be apart as much as it does him.

‘I’m going to miss you,’ he says quietly. ‘When you move away to Lucis.’

She sighs, and a sadness fills her blue eyes before she dutifully puts on a brave face.

‘It won’t be forever,’ she promises. ‘We can visit one another. And once Noctis and I are wed, I’ll have more room to negotiate with the emperor.’

Prompto blows out a breath.

‘What, for me?’ he counters wryly. ‘You think the prince’ll care about his wife’s sickly cousin?’

‘Come now, Prompto,’ Luna chastises, firm but loving. ‘My kin will become his kin. Our loyalty is to family, always.’

With a weary sigh, Prompto turns his glance back to the window where a gentle flurry has begun to fall. What he’d give to open the window and stick his hand out, to feel the flakes on his skin.

‘I must go, sweet cousin,’ Luna says. ‘I’m sure the maids are driven mad trying to find me.’

She kisses him on the head again; the warmth of it endures even after the door has closed behind her.

Alone again. Not for the first time, or the last — Prompto grew up used to having to amuse himself when he had nobody to play with, waiting for the winter to send him to his adoptive home of Tenebrae.

He uses cold, aching hands to wheel himself a little farther into the bay window, where at least he gets a clear view of the gardens. He can see staff working away diligently, even in the snow, to make the place look resplendent for the impending arrivals.

He knows it’s for show — that his people are struggling through the brutal cold in the wake of a disappointing harvest which failed to meet the demands of a growing populace. He’s heard rumours that it was part of the reason the emperor finally agreed to sign the treaty; that the pressure from his people was too great.

Prompto wonders sometimes at this austere man, who shares his blood — distantly — but whom he hardly knows. It’s been a long time since Iedolas Aldercapt deigned to grace the palace with his presence, preferring to spend his days in the heavily-fortified keep at Zegnautus. Prompto can’t remember the last time he saw the man in the flesh.

The emperor, however, is of considerably less interest to him than the arriving Lucians.

He can’t help but imagine what they’ll be like; he’s heard little about them beyond their strange all-black garb, all done up in morbid skull motifs. Maybe he’ll even be lucky enough to meet the prince of Lucis himself, a young man around his own age. Not that Prince Noctis is likely to have much to say to a shut-in.

Prompto sighs and lifts his hand, pressing it to the window. It’s so small that it fits perfectly within the confines of a single pane, framed like some deathly pale blossom.

The cold cuts through the glass and into his flesh, making his bones ache, turning his blood to ice.


	2. Chapter 2

They bundle up in layers before they disembark, at the advice of the stewards on the train. The snow has picked up outside; as Gladiolus yanks on a heavy coat, trimmed with fur, he watches dark figures scurry about on the platform outside, fighting the wind as they unload all of the Lucians’ things.

Gladiolus is already dreading the cold, although they won’t have far to go in it, at least, as there are Magitek engines waiting to take them the rest of the way to their destination. He just hopes there won’t be any of those damned troopers on board to keep watch over them.

A small party of glaives disembarks ahead of them, hands twitching in readiness to conjure their weapons at the first sign of trouble. Crowe sticks close to the prince, along with two other glaives he knows to see, and once the platform is deemed safe it’s their turn to go.

There’s so much to bring — trunks full of formalwear, gifts for both the emperor and the Tenebraeans, all the odds and ends associated with staying in a foreign state for a little over a month. Gladiolus is glad he doesn’t have the unenviable task of transporting or unpacking any of it.

‘Geez,’ Noct mutters, bringing his hands to his face and puffing into them. ‘They weren’t kidding about the whole year-round winter thing, huh?’

‘Heard they’ve got heated floors,’ Crowe quips, deceptively candid as her eyes scan their surroundings. ‘You get out of bed and it’s like stepping onto the sidewalk in July.’

‘Whatever the conditions, your Highness,’ Ignis says, leaning close to the prince, ‘remember to show restraint. You’re representing the king while you’re here.’

Gladiolus thinks Noct goes into something of a sulk at his advisor’s words, but true enough he stands a little straighter and doesn’t let his discomfort show quite so baldly. Gladiolus feels a little pang of pride at the sight of it; his young charge — his friend — all grown up, ready to sign the treaty that will finally put to an end the war his father, and _his_ father before him, have fought for decades.

They trudge through the snow toward the Magitek engines, where stewards guide them on board. Some of the engines are charged with bringing their considerable luggage; others will carry Lucian nobles to their destination.

Waiting outside the closest engine is a woman in draconic armour and furs, a lethal looking lance strapped to her back.

‘Commodore Aranea Highwind,’ Ignis whispers, for Gladiolus and Noctis’s benefit. ‘Quite a formidable foe to the crown. Cor would have a field day if he knew we were meeting with the Dragoon herself.’

She cuts an impressive figure, the heft of her dark black and red scaled armour belying her diminutive stature. Her silvery hair glints coolly in the light, and the only thing more chilly is the sweeping gaze she gives the Lucian party as she takes in the sight of them.

Her demeanour, however, is amicable enough as she gives a shallow bow to the prince.

‘Highness,’ she says. ‘I’ll be escorting you personally to the palace.’

Gladiolus watches Noctis from the corner of his eye. The prince merely nods his head and steps forward, walking up the ramp into the engine.

The vessel has the feel of something retrofitted for human usage — it’s empty and cavernous, with seating fitted in the middle and along the walls almost as an afterthought. The interiors are plush enough, at least, as Gladiolus sinks into the seat to Noct’s right while Ignis takes the left.

‘It’s some walk on foot,’ the woman remarks, as she files onto the engine. She doesn’t take a seat. ‘By air, it’ll take no time at all.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be in good hands under your watch, Commodore,’ Ignis remarks.

She waves her hand dismissively.

‘Please. Just Aranea.’

Gladiolus remembers reading the dossier on this woman — about the many victories the Empire won by her hand. Although he has no difficulty in imagining her cutting down Lucian soldiers, drenched in blood and dirt in the battlefield, there’s something about her that resonates with him. If the Niffs really _do_ intend to betray them, he doesn’t think the commodore will play any part in it.

The journey passes in a tense silence. It’s the first time any of them have travelled by such an unusual means, and Gladiolus finds himself studying the engine’s interior as it glides easily through the air. He thinks he can see the remnants of the brackets where the Magitek troops would have lined up, toy soldiers waiting patiently for deployment.

He swallows and looks away, avoiding the glances of the glaives sitting across from him.

True to Aranea’s word, their arrival is prompt — with the slightest downward motion the engine begins its descent, and the huge door lowers to the ground with a great hydraulic _hiss_ to reveal a walkway lined with soldiers.

Scattered among their ranks, Gladiolus can see the crest of Tenebrae: men and women who have pledged loyalty not to the emperor, but to the Fleurets. Somehow, the sight of them barely dispels Gladiolus’s unease.

‘If you’ll follow me, Highness,’ Aranea says, turning promptly on her heel with a swish of furs.

The walkway is mercifully free of snow, meticulously cleared in anticipation of their arrival. Still, Gladiolus can feel the grit of the frost beneath his boots and wonders how long the soldiers have had to wait here in the cold, standing at attention as though the freezing temperatures don’t bother them even a little.

Aranea walks ahead of the entourage; directly behind are a handful of glaives. Noctis, Gladiolus and Ignis take up the middle with another group of glaives behind, and an Imperial escort at the very rear.

The Imperials and Tenebraeans bow as one while the prince files past. When Gladiolus dares to look at their faces, he can see expressions ranging from cold indifference to admiration.

‘We’ll be greeted by the Tummelts, along with Lady Lunafreya and her retinue,’ Ignis murmurs. ‘We’ll not meet the emperor until we go to Zegnautus Keep for the signing.’

Silently, Noctis nods as he takes in the information. For once, Gladiolus can’t read his charge’s thoughts written on his features — whatever the prince has to make of everything, he’ll have to ask later.

Their path leads them away from the landing pad and around the grand estate of the palace, through walkways lined with lush blue spruces and juniper. The trees have been strung with tiny paper lanterns in a trio of colours: black for Lucis, white and red for the Empire and blue for Tenebrae. Within the lanterns are little lights, twinkling gently to ward off the mid-morning gloom.

When the palace comes into view, it’s hard not to be impressed. It’s nothing like the shimmering form of the Citadel, austere and yet beautiful in its own intimidating way; instead the palace is a sprawling form of wings and towers, a monument of stunning marble and alabaster. The gardens are laid out like a maze in miniature, small hedgerows lining innumerable pathways leading to fountains, frozen ponds, and gazebos.

‘Makes a change from city streets and pollution,’ Gladiolus mutters.

Ahead, at the main entrance to the palace, there’s a welcome party waiting for them: Niffs and Tenebraeans, lined up in grand ceremony. The Tummelts, heirs to the throne, are at the front — but it’s easy to overlook them next to Lady Lunafreya herself where she stands back from them, a vision in white fur. Her brother, Lord Ravus, stands sentinel by her side; Gladiolus knows that an enemy could cut their way through the dozen or more guards standing by, but they’d never make it through the lady’s brother.

Aranea steps aside when they near the welcoming party, lowering her head in a reverential bow; a member from the Niflheim party steps forward and bows low to the Lucians as the glaives part to make way for Noctis.

They’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times, yet still it catches Gladiolus off guard when Ignis marches forward and bows to the Tummelts in turn.

Gladiolus grits his teeth as he stands through the formal introductions of each side. When it’s finally time, he steps forward alongside Noct, summons his shield and lowers it formally to the ground, bowing at its side.

A Lucian bowing to a bunch of Niffs. He hoped he’d never see the day.

One of the Tummelts — daughter of the heir apparent of Niflheim, and future heir to the throne — Princess Astrid, steps forward in robes of sweeping white silk with fox trim. She has a small child at her hip, and even under the layers of her winter clothing Gladiolus can see her belly is swollen with another little prince or princess on the way.

‘If it please you, Your Highness,’ she says, ‘may I introduce your bride-to-be, Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae.’

‘We’ve already had the pleasure of meeting,’ Noct says, a little shyly.

Gladiolus wonders if the Niffs know about the notebooks Noct and Lady Lunafreya sent each other back and forth over the years, exchanging messages about the goings-on in their respective countries. Gladiolus has never seen the notebooks for himself, but judging by how badly Noctis used to blush whenever he was caught scribbling in their pages, he has a feeling the contents were pretty candid.

He tries to gauge how long it’s been since the couple last saw each other in the flesh, when they were still too young to be troubled by talk of betrothals and treaties. Noctis had been recuperating in Tenebrae after his accident until the Empire had attacked, leaving Tenebrae in ruin — and without its beloved queen.

Lunafreya steps around her companions, her brother close at her side, and approaches Noctis. Her furs sweep across the ground where it sparkles with frost, and for a moment it seems the whole of the world has gone silent as she takes those last few steps. She offers Noct her hand, curtseying deeply as she does so; Noct brushes his lips so delicately against her hand that it’s as though he’s afraid he’ll shatter her with his mere touch.

They may not have seen each other in years, but the moment of their reunion is like a lightning strike — static crackles through the air, and as Lunafreya lifts her eyes to meet the prince’s, Gladiolus feels the hairs stand up all over his arms, even under all of his layers of clothing.

‘All right, all right,’ a petulant voice trumpets — Prince Loqi, Princess Astrid’s younger brother. ‘It’s freezing out here. Let’s get inside already.’

Steadily, the welcoming party falls into line and files through the great double doors of the palace entrance. Aranea stalks off after them without a word.

‘Well then,’ Ignis says briskly. ‘Best not to keep them waiting.’

It’s only a short walk, but Gladiolus lets his glance prowl their surroundings as they go. He spies faces in some of the windows of the palace, peering curiously out at the arriving foreigners; they promptly disappear before he can get a good look at them.

There’s only one figure that doesn’t vanish from view when he locks glances with them — a young man up high in a tower, pale and small in the frame of a bay window. He can feel the glance still on him even after he’s stopped craning his head to look up, where it prickles at the back of his neck like the icy fingers of the wind.

* * *

There’s so much protocol to be followed that it isn’t long before Gladiolus finds himself exhausted by all the formality. It feels like he’s walking on eggshells every second that he’s there, careful not to make eye contact with the wrong person or speak out of turn. In the end, it’s less daunting just to shut up altogether — but on the rare occasions he’s addressed directly he finds himself struggling to string words together that won’t potentially offend.

Ignis, for his part, takes as well to it as a duck to water. Where Gladiolus and the glaives may be a little rusty as far as etiquette goes, the royal advisor seems to heap it on in buckets, promptly distracting attention from anyone else’s shortcomings.

When finally they’re given leave to retire to their chambers to prepare for the feast later, Gladiolus can barely restrain himself from breaking off into a sprint.

Noctis has the suite of honour, with chambers on either side for Gladiolus and Ignis respectively. Their belongings are already in place, clothes carefully laid out for them for the evening and — food. Food, dish after dish of the stuff, waiting hot and steaming on tables for them.

Crowe barely has a chance to check it before Noctis sets his sights on the spread.

‘Highness,’ Ignis says, watching with dismay as Noct rushes for a plate filled with some sort of confection drizzled in chocolate sauce. ‘Need I remind you we’ll be dining with the royal family in a few hours so you’ll want to keep your appeti—’

‘Lighten up, Specs,’ Noctis says, a spoon already halfway to his mouth. ‘It’d be rude to let all of this go to waste.’

Ignis doesn’t seem to have an argument to counter with, and it’s good enough for Gladiolus; he’s soon joining suit with the prince, targeting a dish of what looks like braised meat in broth. It tastes salty and sweet at the same time, making Gladiolus salivate in anticipation of the next bite.

‘We’re their guests for the time being, Noct,’ Ignis says primly, ‘but don’t forget what we’re here to do. We shouldn’t rest on our laurels until the treaty is signed.’

‘Nobody’s resting on anything,’ Noct mumbles through a mouthful of food. ‘Starving, s’all.’

With an exasperated sigh, Ignis turns and stalks away to the desk by the window where his documents have been laid out for him by the Lucian stewards. Even at a time like this he never takes a minute to breathe, his mind always focused on strategy.

‘Lady Lunafreya sure is somethin’,’ Gladiolus quips, taking a moment to wash his food down with some water. When he sees Crowe eyeing the miniature feast, he nudges a dish towards her.

It’s impossible to miss the way Noctis’s cheeks glow with heat at the mention of his betrothed.

‘Yeah,’ Noct mumbles. ‘She’s even prettier than I remember.’

Gladiolus had been a little galled at first by the whole thing — an arranged marriage to seal the treaty to finally end the bloodshed. He remembers reading about long-dead kings and queens who didn’t have the luxury of choosing who would sit the throne beside them, however; remembers his old man telling him that Regis had only been allowed to marry for love once upon a time because his father, King Mors, had been sure of their imminent defeat at the hands of the Niffs.

Maybe Noctis didn’t get to choose his bride, but Gladiolus couldn’t think of a better match for the prince to be paired with.

♜ ♜ ♜

Luna’s breathless when she sweeps into Prompto’s chambers; her cheeks are tinged pink from the cold and the excitement, and her hands are chilly as she takes hold of Prompto’s.

‘I don’t have long,’ she says hurriedly. ‘They want to change my dress _again,_ but I wanted to see you first. Oh, Prompto — he’s so different than I remember. He’ll be a fine king someday.’

Twelve years have passed since Prince Noctis’s time in Tenebrae — twelve years, and Prompto can hardly remember what Luna looked like back then. He knows he was in the Fleurets’ homeland at the time of the prince’s stay, but Prompto had been too sickly to ever meet him; so much of that year is a blur.

‘Are you scared?’ Prompto asks, looking into his cousin’s blue eyes. ‘About getting married?’

Luna shakes her head, setting her blonde bangs cascading about her face.

‘We’ve told each other so many secrets in our notes over the years,’ she says. ‘Things we’d never dream of telling another soul.’

Prompto feels a pang of something that might be jealousy; when he thinks about it, though, he decides he’s more relieved than anything else. If Luna has to marry as part of some political manoeuvre, he’s just glad that it’s somebody she knows and trusts.

‘I should go,’ she says, casting a glance toward the door. ‘They’ll come to dress you for the feast soon. Tell them to send for me when you’re ready.’

He wishes they had more time — wishes he could see more of her than the stolen moments they’ll have to share in between all the formal gatherings. The next few weeks will be such a flurry of activity that she’ll hardly have a moment to spare for her cousin before she’s whisked off to her new home thousands of miles away.

He gives her a watery smile as she goes, and waves a hand before she disappears through the door.

This is supposed to be a happy time: his cousin’s wedding; the signing of the treaty. So why does he feel so sad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones) | [tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones) | [tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com)


End file.
